


Smoke & Ink

by ComeAlongPond14



Series: Smoke and Ink verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dominance, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Sniper Sebastian, Sub Sebastian, Tattoo artist Sebastian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2013-11-13
Packaged: 2018-01-01 08:50:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComeAlongPond14/pseuds/ComeAlongPond14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Former military sniper and hobby tattoo artist Seb Moran secretly loves being Jim Moriarty's bitch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke & Ink

**Author's Note:**

> My mental image of Jim: http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lz4x4hAC3h1r0gla2o1_1328805879_cover.jpg
> 
> My mental image of Seb:  
> http://cdn2.team-twilight.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/cam-gigandet-all-smiles-in-santa-monica-04.jpg
> 
> And yeah, I love the idea of Seb being a hobby tattoo artist.
> 
> More of "yeah, I'm a jerk about updating, have some MorMor smut I wrote forever ago." Forgive me. XD

The first time Sebastian Moran glimpsed Jim Moriarty, it was just for a moment; walking down the street with his groceries, he was suddenly distinctly aware of someone watching him. When his gaze jumped to the far street corner, he could see him: a lean, wiry man with dark hair and darker eyes, dressed impeccably in a tailored black suit, hands in his trouser pockets as he studied Seb from a distance. He was not shy about being caught staring; but when Seb blinked, he was gone.

He forgot this incident however, long before the evening when Moriarty arrived on his doorstep. In for the night and not expecting company, he was startled when the doorbell for his flat rang. He unlocked the door without asking who it was, unconcerned that it might be some kind of attack. He was solitary and antisocial, but he was not that paranoid--not yet.

When the man sauntered into his flat and made himself right at home in Seb’s armchair, it only took a second to recognize him.

“You were watching me a while back.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” Those dark eyes raked over him, seeming to evaluate him in one thorough look-over. Apparently liking what he saw, the man leaned forward in his chair, steepling long, pale fingers beneath his chin and gazing at Seb thoughtfully. “Wanted to see if you were worth the work of training you. Though, in watching you, I’ve noticed that you really don’t seem to need it. You seem...uniquely suited for the job.”

Seb arched an eyebrow, turning back to the kitchen to continue heating water for his tea.  
“Cuppa?” he asked over his shoulder. There was an affirmative hum. Fetching a second mug and tea bag, he frowned pensively. “What job?”

A soft chuckle. “The job I’m going to give you, unless you find the thought of torturing, maiming, and often killing people on my command to be abhorrent.”

Seb paused in reaching for the cream and sugar, glancing back to check the stranger’s expression. Deadly serious. Right, then.

Carrying the tea tray to the coffee table, he sat down and crossed one leg over the other. “What line of work are you in?” he asked, curiosity piqued about this dark-eyes, spider-like man.

A smirk crossed the otherwise cold and emotionless face across from him. “I am a...consultant. For the messy tasks in life. I see to it that things get done when others don’t want their hands dirty. And I need a right hand who I can trust to have my back.” His gaze dropped to the faint but visible black weave of a celtic tattoo running over the back of Seb’s hand. “It’s also quite a catch that you’re as handy with a tattoo gun as with a 9mm Glock. Can you handle sniper rifles?”

Seb’s mouth twisted. “You could say that.”

The other man laughed. “I know. I wanted to see how vain you are about your military record. If you aren’t deployed as a sniper any longer, then why didn't you just become a full-time tattoo artist?”

“I was,” said Seb softly, gazing up at the ceiling. “Lost my license to practice in a shop. I work from home now. Which...well, it pays the bills.”

Interest sparked in those fathomless eyes. “What cost you your license?”

Seb dropped his eyes to meet his guest’s, knowing that his own were burning with the fire he only really felt when he was inking someone. “In my region, it wasn’t legal to practice scarification tattoos, but I did it anyway. I’ll take any job that pays. I love watching the blood beading on the surface.” He paused, the slight pinch in his expression indicating that he hadn't meant to say that part.

But it appeared to have been the perfect thing to say to this prospective employee. Those eyes, so dark they were like pitch, glinted with a maniacal light as he sat back, smiling in a highly self-satisfied way. Tugging a case from his jacket pocket, he brandished the cigarettes. “You mind?” At Seb’s head shake, he pulled one out and lit it up. “Well, then. You do seem a good fit. There are conditions, however. If you work for me, you are available 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. You do not argue or question me, and you follow yours orders immediately and efficiently. It will be unsavory, dirty, and almost always illegal work. You will be assisting in the arrangement and execution of abductions, torture, domestic terrorism--such as planting bombs and surveillance on highly confidential affairs--and when I am done with someone, you will erase all record of them and dispose of the body.” He took a long drag of the cigarette, watching the way Seb’s eyes tracked the trickle of smoke leaving his lips. “What do you say?”

Seb’s eyes focused back on his. “Am I ever coming back here?”

Again with that slow, self-satisfied smirk. “No.” He tapped the cigarette against the ashtray on the table, then took another long drag. “If you should choose to retire--meaning we part amiably and I don’t consider you a liability to be dealt with--we’ll settle you somewhere far away and safer. This place--this identity--will be dead.”

Seb swallowed, thinking hard. There was no sensible reason to even consider saying yes to such a ludicrous offer. But as he stared back into the cold snake eyes of a man who was obviously a complete psychopath, all he could think about was the rush of adrenaline--pure, joyful adrenaline--that was pulsing through him. This offer was eliciting the strongest sense of pleasure he’d felt in months. He smiled.

“I’ll grab my things.”

His new employee smiled back and put out the cigarette. “Pack light, dearie, we travel often and without much luxury. Clothes for all climates, your weaponry, your inking gear. Should be sufficient.”

Seb had no trouble with that; he hardly owned anything above the practical. Into his knapsack went clothes, basic amenities, and the portable tattoo kit he’d owned since uni. His gun case, long-ignored beneath the bed gathering dust--much like the “honorable” military career it had accompanied--was brushed off and shouldered. Returning to the front, he followed without a word as they left the flat, closing the door for good on his old life.

As they left the building and approached a car waiting at the curb, Seb hesitantly spoke up. “I don’t actually know your name, sir.” The last word sounded almost like a question, and tasted strange on his tongue; though he felt the subtle current of dominance in the other man, he wasn’t sure whether he really counted as an inferior.

Those beautiful dark eyes flickered over him appreciatively as he held the door open. “My name is Jim Moriarty, but I recommend against addressing me that way directly if you know what’s good for you.” He smiled as though he had praised Seb. “Understood?”

Inexplicably, the half-threat brought another rush of excitement to Seb. He hadn’t realized until now just how much he’d missed having someone to answer to, someone whose authority was absolute and not to be challenged. It was his nature.

“Understood, boss,” he said with an easy smile, sliding into the car. From the pleased look on Moriarty’s face as he slipped in beside Seb, it appeared they’d already found their stride. 

* * *

That was how the partnership had begun. From then on, it only got better.

Seb was committed to his job, following every condition to the letter, unwilling to let Jim down in any way. Over time, he knew that his dedication had shifted in motivation from professional to very, very personal; he did not obey out of desire for money, or fear of punishment--though there was punishment for errors, very severe punishments that had left their share of scars on his already war-marked body--but he obeyed because, as sick and twisted as the notion was when you looked at Jim Moriarty...he loved him.

He wasn’t always sure what that fact meant to him. Some days it was simple and it made sense: the orders came, by call or by text or in person, and he could hear the faint smile in Jim’s voice as he called on his favorite of his “pets,” and Seb responded without hesitation, knowing it pleased the boss, feeling satisfied with his own work, calm and at peace with his little world.

Some days it was downright fucked up, the sound of Jim’s voice making his blood rush and his body tighten and harden, need rushing through him and wanting, but not able to say, not brave enough to ask. If Jim saw, he didn’t address it. It was the best and worst way to live.

Eventually something had to give.

* * *

Seb finished tinkering with the new attachment to his tattoo gun, returning the last screw to its place and enjoying the healthy hum of the machine as he toed the pedal gently. Perfect. Setting it aside, he strode to the kitchen to finish making supper, whistling softly.

The door opened and shut, and he heard the faint sound of Jim’s ridiculously expensive leather shoes tapping across the hardwood entryway to hang his coat and jacket. A glance over the shoulder showed the consulting criminal--brilliant little fucker, Seb thought with a smile--slumping into his chair and staring into space. He had the look about him that meant he was tired of the outside world and its trivial nonsense. Seb chuckled.

“Long day?”

Jim stretched his arms over his head, and Seb noticed the way the tension seemed to ease out of his expression. The cruel part of Seb that never stopped secretly hoping, wanting, chose to believe that his presence and voice could soothe Jim that way. The rational side of him silenced that little voice and returned his attention to the beef he was slicing.

Jim answered, his voice soft and weary. “People are so inanely predictable, Seb. It’s just so mind-numbingly, maddeningly dull sometimes. I can hardly stand pretending I don’t want to kill them.”

Seb snorted. “You don’t. People can tell when you want a bullet in their head, boss.”

Jim laughed softly, agreeably. “True. Lucky for them I have you to be the reasonable one.” He leaned forward, smiling at his “pet” soldier, propping his chin on his folded hands. “You do protect me, don’t you, Seb? You don’t let me make reckless decisions about kills.”

Seb shrugged, fetching the plates and beginning to set the table. “I try. You have so much fun with it, sometimes it’s like a kid, I gotta slow you down, is all.” He smiled at his boss.

Jim chuckled appreciatively, then picked up Seb’s discarded sketchbook. “New tattoo designs?” he asked, and it was that tone, the one that meant that no matter how much people bored him, he did genuinely care about Seb. It was wonderful.

“Yeah,” Seb said, shrugging. “Just doodles. Nothing grand.”

Jim flipped through the pages, studying the intricate designs. “You have such a talented hand, Seb. It’s beautiful. Shame none of these people recognize the gift on their skin.

That made Seb laugh, and at Jim’s surprised look, he explained, still smiling, “Well, every artist has a signature. There’s a single detail that appears in every tattoo I do. I guess I just have to mark them in my own way.” 

Jim’s face lit up with a delighted smile. “How devious. Where is it?” His gaze dropped to the color photos tucked into the notebook, a makeshift portfolio of the tattoos Seb had done on real people.

Seb grinned mischievously. “Try and find it. You’re the one who sees and knows everything, smartass.”

Jim looked up at him, and there was fire in his eyes that made Seb shiver. “How about a wager, Seb?”

“What do you mean?” Seb pretended to focus on the vegetables he was assembling, wanting to conceal the way he was responding to the tone of Jim’s voice.

“A wager. If I find your signature mark, you owe me one favor--anything I ask, no questions or arguments, no fuss. You just do what I ask.”

Seb almost pointed out that he willingly did so anyway, but caught himself. There was an end-game here, there always was with Jim. Turning to lean against the counter, he folded his arms and held Jim’s gaze. “Alright, and if you don’t find it?”

Jim smiled, and it was his feral smile, his all-knowing, someone’s-going-to-die smile. “Same conditions. You get any one favor you like. Anything you’ve wanted to ask but didn’t presume to...anything you knew I might say no to.”

The subtle challenge in his voice was terrifying, as though he was dangling exactly what Seb most wanted right in front of him--and he was. Seb did not know how this would end. He simply nodded his agreement, and Jim bent to analyze the photos, while Seb finished setting out supper.

Finally, when Seb told him the food was ready, Jim stood and raised in his hands in a mock gesture of defeat. “I surrender. I can’t find anything that repeats or reappears. Go on, then, Seb dear, impress me. Where’s your signature?”

Leaning over the coffee table, Seb smiled slightly and pointed. “Top-right corner, or whatever serves as such, in every design. There’s two curved lines and two dots, making a sort of open star-shape. In some I can manage to twist it into a bit of an ‘S,’ or an ‘M’ for Sebastian or Moran. It’s always there, though.”

Flipping through the pictures, Jim laughed in delight. “Well, there it is. Brilliant, Seb. You’re a master.” His eyes twinkled as he glanced up at the artist. “So now I owe you a favor.”

Seb’s breath caught, then released in a rush as Jim promptly retreated to the table. This game felt dangerous, and he suspected that he was not winning.

After supper Seb was cleaning up when he heard Jim enter the kitchen behind him. Glancing back, he swallowed as he watched the Irishman raise a cigarette to his lips, lighting it deftly and letting his gaze drift to rest heavily on Seb, illuminating him in that all-fucking-seeing gaze.

“So, Seb...have you thought about the favor you want?”

Drying off his hands, Seb turned to face him, breathing shallowly. Everything about Jim screamed danger right now, from his deceptively relaxed stance to his lazy smile to the seductive way he put the smouldering cigarette to his lips. His eyes were glowing embers, burning Seb with the sheer intensity of that look. Seb was doomed.

“Kiss me.”

The words slipped from him without permission, and he was immediately mortified. He knew a flush was burning across his face, and the temptation to turn away was overwhelming.

Jim sauntered forward, a snake-like smile curving his features. “The penny drops,” he murmured, and Seb flinched as Jim suddenly leaned in very close, bringing them nose to nose. He did not touch him, reaching around him with one arm instead. Seb shuddered as he realized the cigarette was being stubbed out in the ashtray behind him. He waited breathlessly.

Abruptly Jim grasped his jaw with one hand, his long pale fingers digging into his chin to the point of pain, but Seb did not cry out. His lips parted with a breath of sheer, overpowering lust, however, and Jim took advantage. His mouth crashed onto Seb’s without mercy or gentleness, and the kiss was all fire and blood-lust and anger, exactly like the man himself. Seb felt himself getting lost in it. His fingers twisted in the front of Jim’s pristine white oxford, his need conveyed in the way he eagerly accepted Jim’s brutal assault on his mouth, and the way his hips arched and thrust against the consulting criminal’s, desperate for relief.

Then, just as abruptly, Jim shoved him back against the counter, stunning him. His dark eyes danced with malicious laughter. “You only asked for a kiss, Sebby. That’s all you get, for now.”

He turned away, striding down the hallway to his own room, leaving Seb gasping and panting against the counter, wondering what the hell he’d just gotten himself into.

* * *

Neither of them mentioned the kiss, or the tension that had blossomed between them overnight as a result of it. Seb could not stop imagining what it would have been like if Jim had not stopped him, if trousers had come undone and hands had wandered and he’d been free to explore the mad man’s body with his lips and his fingers as he longed to...he hoped Jim had meant it, and that there was more to come.

Then came the night that changed everything. Jim sat in the bay window, an unopened copy of “Lord of the Flies” resting on his knees, gazing across the courtyard at the tower of flats opposite theirs. 

Seb glanced over at him curiously. “What’re you thinking about?”

Jim smiled idly and nodded out the window. “There’s a row across the way. The young couple that moved in a few months back. Looks like it’s going to get violent.”

Seb meandered over, gazing over at where, sure enough, a young man and woman faced off, screaming and gesturing angrily at one another. Any minute, they’d come to blows. He raised an eyebrow. “So?”

Jim chuckled. “I was thinking another wager. How do you think it will end?”

Seb’s mouth went dry. He cleared his throat carefully. “A wager, eh? Same conditions?” At Jim’s nod--bastard was smirking like he’d already won--Seb let out a breath, staring at the drama across the pavement. “I reckon he’ll slap her and she’ll stomp off. Maybe go to a neighbor’s and call the coppers. She’s young, likely has overly worried parents who will take her back.”

Jim chuckled, tossing his book aside. “Quite wrong, Sebby. I agree he’ll slap her, but the poor little tart thinks she’s in love, she’s found ‘the one,’ and she could never admit so soon that her parents were right about him. She’ll crumple. He’ll storm off, hating that he hit her and that she doesn’t care, and then tonight the little birdy will pretend nothing happened and they’ll keep on hating one another into oblivion.”

Seb rolled his eyes, and they waited.

The young man seemed to lose his temper, spinning on his heel and striking out, a solid slap to her face. She tumbled down as though she’d been punched. With a horrified look at her, the boy turned and ran out. After a moment, she picked herself up, holding her cheek, then turned and skulked down the hall toward the bedroom.

Seb whistled. “Well, alright then. Kids have gotten stupider.”

Jim snorted. “They all put up with mad things when it comes to their ideas of ‘love.’ They don’t see that it’s all an illusion, they’re all just animals.” His gaze drifted over Seb’s face with an unnerving gleam of triumph in his eyes. “Seems I’ve won this round.”

Seb sighed and leaned against the wall. “Indeed, you have. What’s the prize, then?”

Jim wandered over to the coffee table, picking up a cigarette and lighting it. Once again, he was like a dark angel, tempting Seb with the cold beauty of him standing there, face lit darkly by the glow of the cig, hands in trouser pockets, smirking sinfully around the roll of paper and tobacco pressed between his lips.

“Come here.” His voice was several octaves lower, and Seb felt his pulse jump. Trying to conceal his heightening arousal, he slowly crossed from the window to where Jim stood near the kitchen doorway, out of sight of the window. Face to face, they gazed at one another, sizing up the situation.

Jim’s eyes darted downward, then back to Seb’s face. “On your knees, Seb.”

Seb blinked, unsure he’d heard correctly. “What?”

The slap was completely unexpected, and he gasped as Jim’s hand connected solidly with his cheek, leaving a burning sensation from his eye down to his mouth. He stared at his boss in shock. Jim’s eyes glinted with restrained violence.

“The conditions of the wager were ‘no questions, no argument,’ Seb. Did you misunderstand that instruction?”

Swallowing hard, Seb shook his head slowly. “No, boss.” Carefully, keeping his gaze fixed on Jim’s, he sank to his knees in front of him.

Jim smiled coolly, taking a long drag of the cigarette, studying Seb with a raw hunger that sent his blood rushing south. “You’re quite a pretty sight, Sebby, did you know that? I’ve always liked looking at you...but like this, well, you’re just fucking gorgeous, aren’t you? Get that shirt off, there’s a love.”

Seb was struggling to keep his breathing steady. “Going for more than one favor, aren’t you.” Before Jim could react to his sass, he grasped the hem of his t-shirt and dragged it off, baring his chest.

He’d hoped that his compliance would negate the fact that he’d spoken, but no such luck. Jim grasped his chin, forcing his face up to meet the sparking black eyes. “I’m taking what’s mine, fuck the favor. I don’t think you’re really opposed, are you, Seb?”

Seb opened his mouth to answer, but all that emerged was a primitive groan as Jim proved his point by pressing one foot--still clad in his polished black leather shoes--over the hard curve of Seb’s obvious erection. He hunched forward, submitting to the pressure just as he had submitted to the man himself.

Jim’s fingers stroked with deceptive gentility through Seb’s fine, dirty blonde hair. “We’re not going to back-talk anymore, are we, Seb?”

“No,” he gasped, instinctively grabbing Jim’s leg as though to stop him, but he didn’t push, just held on as his psychopath tormented his tender body.

Then Jim withdrew his foot, and Seb was panting, desperate for more contact. “Please,” he whispered.

Jim laughed out loud, delighted. “Already begging? Oh, Seb, I have so much for you.”

Suddenly there was a burst of pain and heat, and Seb jerked hard to the right as Jim abruptly snuffed out his dying cigarette on the kneeling man’s left shoulder. The yelp that escaped him was animalistic, and he glared up at Jim, his eyes asking a furious “why?”

Jim smiled, shaking loose a second cig and lighting it, leaning down to blow the smoke carefully into Seb’s eyes, but he did not blink or flinch. The Irishman’s eyes were alight with approval. “Willing to take my abuse and my shit and still be on your knees wanting it, eh, Seb?”

Seb exhaled, long and slow. “Always.”

The consulting criminal smiled, his free hand slipping into his pet’s hair, stroking almost lovingly. “Right, then. Undo my trousers, Seb.”

Only a heartbeat of hesitation, and then the fingers tightened warningly in his hair, and Seb shut his rational mind down and just surrendered. He unhooked the belt and the expensive black trousers, letting them fall open to reveal bare flesh beneath. He snorted. “Commando?”

Jim shrugged, still gazing down at him with passive pleasure in his eyes. “It was time for step two in seducing you.”

Seb stared at him a moment, then gave a breathless laugh. “You did find my signature in the tattoos, didn’t you.”

Jim grinned. “Of course I did. But I couldn’t do this until I’d lent you the courage to ask me to kiss you.” He sucked hard on the cig, then lowered it to allow Seb a drag. As the nicotine spread through him, soothing him, Jim smiled and adjusted his grip on the blonde hair. “Now, stop talking, Seb, and put that mouth to it’s intended use.”

Seb licked his lips, ready and eager. “Yes, boss.” Leaning up on his haunches, he slid his master’s cock free of his trousers and took it deeply into his mouth, revelling in the sounds of pleasure Jim made as he pumped his hips forward, using Seb for his own release, exactly as Seb had longed for. It did not take long, licking and sucking and taking it as deeply into his throat as he could manage, before Seb felt his beloved psychopath begin shaking, his fingers tightening almost too painfully into Seb’s hair before he was coming, coming hard, and Seb swallowed every drop.

As they drew apart, Jim tucking his shirt back in and Seb retrieving his own, Seb steeled himself for the likely chance that Jim would say it was just once, to get it out of their systems, it wouldn’t be repeated.

As he struggled to compose himself, he felt Jim come up behind him, the Irishman’s cool hand slipping around beneath his shirt, caressing the hard lines of his stomach. “No, Seb,” he said softly. “Not a one-time event. I plan to explore every inch of your body until I’ve memorized every tactile detail.” His dark eyes glittered with a mix of laughter and dominance. “Understood?”

Seb grinned, his heart skipping a beat with excitement over the prospect of their future explorations. “Absolutely, boss.”


End file.
